


muster some tender charm

by TheMightiestPotato



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Minor Character Death, No Plot/Plotless, Out of Character, Vomit, but it can be read as platonic, but its dead by daylight so y'know, just two killers holding hands, little dash of Fairking, not actually dead, particularly for pyramid head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:01:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29489457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMightiestPotato/pseuds/TheMightiestPotato
Summary: The Executioner always comes to witness the final moments of her trials, their own ceremony follows.Alternatively: Two killers hold hands as they go on a walk. Dwight meanwhile panics.
Relationships: Adiris | The Plague/Pyramid Head | The Executioner
Kudos: 23





	muster some tender charm

There is little that is sacred to her fellow killers, Adiris learned this quickly - and they learned just as fast that she held no qualms disciplining them for wanton acts of defilement. Such acts were not always borne from the odd joy some took in her rage and she was sure to use a gentle, more guiding hand in such cases, as rare as they were. Few visited the Temple, fewer still visited for her and the ones that did never stayed long. But there were exceptions to every rule.

Even over the sobs and whimpering of the young man upon the hook, she needn’t strain her ears to know that one of said exceptions was approaching; his breath rattles through the odd contraption on his head, and the slab of metal makes a distinct noise as he drags it across the stone of her temple. His arrivals are always loud and the question of how he manages to hunt in his trials rises in her mind each time.

Perhaps they freeze in fear the moment that distinct sound falls upon their ears, the scraping metal against the ground assuring them of the fate that walked unfalteringly to meet them. Or maybe it wasn’t fear but awe that stilled them, their body protesting movement as any mortal’s would when face-to-face with a being so beyond their comprehension. The offering upon the hook looks behind her shoulder, to where the Executioner lingers, and draws in a shuddering breath as his eyes widen impossibly large. So focused is he on their witness that he seems to ignore the claws of Enki coming to encompass him.

Awe then, and she thinks she understands. In her living life, she too would’ve cowered at his approach, grovelled at his feet as she implored mercy. But such grovelling is unbecoming of her now and she instead focuses on the final rites, offering both prayer and sacrifice to her waiting God. The man doesn’t struggle in time, his last moments a choking splutter as he surrenders to the cold, sharp embrace that carries him upwards.

Let this one know peace, she whispers, hopes, but does not plead. If the offering is found to be distasteful, the man will return to the trials as all others have. She no longer allows it to strike so deeply in her heart, and Enki assures her through the dancing of her incense that he is satisfied with her offerings even if they are never kept.

Shaking her head of the thought and allowing her posture to relax, she turns to regard her guest. He stands a respectful distance as always; his gaze is on her – she thinks, quietly cursing that odd thing on his head – and she feels the remnants of her trial uncomfortably, the blood on her censer, her silks, the drips of bile at the corner of her lips and the sour taste on her tongue, the dry burning of her throat and the uncomfortable turn of her stomach. Her days of extravagance are long gone, but she misses them keenly when she feels his focus so sharply on her.

Part of that focus is his waiting for her signal, the unspoken permission to come to her side. Adiris doesn’t know what exactly it is, despite how cautious of her movements and mannerisms she is around him in her efforts to learn. She despises not knowing what he sees, and she is wary in how easily he reads her – she readily desires his approach at the earliest moment she deigns it appropriate, and he complies even when it is not a conscious thought in her mind.

Gesturing with her clawed hand towards the exit, she walks onwards without pause. There is no drag of metal behind her, but his unburdened steps come into stride with her own easily and they step outside into the foggy, wet woods that Enki has saw fit to gift her in this life. There is no give outside of trials – the fog remains, swirling and dancing around their ankles and the rain falls on them in light, scarce droplets, but it is certainly a more peaceful vista when there are no survivors and the horizon is free of those odd machines they work on for their freedom.

Their path is an aimless one and the air between them is comfortably silent aside from their breath and the disturbance of crows, such contentment has become added steps in her ceremonies – souls are given and he is there to witness the final ascent, or they run free and he watches as she seethes and prays until she is choking on bile and a warm hand rests on her shoulder in quiet assurance: _next time_. She thinks she feels his own simmering rage in those moments.

The walk always follows, no matter how the trial went, and it too has its own traditions.

His hand brushes against hers, fingers flexing and finding a place in the spaces between her own. They never intertwine and the contact is gone just as quickly as it happened, neither draw attention to it but never does he claim it to be accidental and the contact, however brief, has a comfortable warmth settle in her chest and her skin tingles with the physical memory long after he leaves for his own realm.

She expects it to be the same this hour as it always is, the brief touch sets her alight and she savours it, flexes her hand just after the touch and tells herself to be content with what he gives, no matter how she yearns to reach and hold and not let go until Enki himself wills her to. She buries that want and straightens her posture as she does, drawing herself upwards and breathing in deeply. The air carries some of her own putrid stench inwards and she is grateful in that moment that he braves it for the sake of her company, the horrid smell of rot and vomit is enough to have even the most brutal among them wretch. She herself coughs, her lungs protesting violently and wracking her frame in their efforts.

The priestess reaches out blindly in her stumbling towards a wall and finds support in something much warmer and more alive than the cold stone. The Executioner takes her reaching hand in his own, calloused fingers wrapping gently around delicate claws as his other guides her into his chest, holding her steady against his muscular mass until the coughing fit passes. He doesn’t flinch as a disgusting sound escapes the back of her throat or as she turns her head to spit ill-coloured phlegm into the grass, instead his hand traces circles against her back and he only lets his grip slacken around her as she takes a small step away – still within his arms but no longer chest-to-chest.

He wonders if she hears his heartbeat quicken when she smiles at him and he draws her in close once more to be certain of it.

* *

Dwight bursts through the treeline, his own heart beat in his ears. A rhythmic bump, bump, bump that drowns out his heavy breathing and the calling of the other survivors.

“Dwight! Dwight! Oi!” Strong arms catch him before he runs straight into the flaring campfire. He protests, panicked yells tearing through his throat as he tries to pull himself free from the vice grip that lifts him from the ground. Kicking out wildly, he only stops at the constant assurances around him, the voices gentle as if calming a wild animal. “Jesus Dwight.” Comes David’s concerned voice from behind – the one holding him. “What happened to you?”

He’s slowly lowered, feet touching the ground but David still keeping him steady as exhaustion from his sprint finally settles in. His lungs burn and his shoulder aches from where the hook had torn through. He shakes his head, looking to the other man with wild eyes and not noticing the others edge closer.

“They’re- the killers they’re-” He swallows and takes a moment. His hands come to grip David’s elbows. “They might be teaming up; the Executioner was with the Plague before I died.” The effect of his words take a moment to settle, like a wave the realisation hit each of them. David’s grip tightens protectively on the smaller man when it registers for him.

“We’ll deal with it, yeah?”

“Y-yeah.” He feels braver speaking when David looks at him with such intense faith. “Yeah, we’ll find a way.” 

**Author's Note:**

> The entity is referred to as Enki by the Plague - I might've misread her lore but im sure it mentions that she believes it's her god she's sacrificing the survivors to 
> 
> anyways this was entirely self-indulgent and the title is just there because i've had Hozier on blast while writing this, thanks for reading!


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